


Identity is a Relative Term

by CavannaRose, MelyssaShadows



Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Drama, Gen, Robbery, Thief, pickpocket
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2020-09-07 20:11:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20315341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CavannaRose/pseuds/CavannaRose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelyssaShadows/pseuds/MelyssaShadows
Summary: Hell's Kitchen has seen a rise in powered heroes and villains, but what about those without abilities, the ones who are just trying to get by?





	1. Chapter 1

Hell’s fecking Kitchen. She’d stayed in some rough squats in her days, but this might be the worst shitehole she’d ever ended up at the end of a long day. That was saying a lot, she’d spent almost a year in Cardiff. Wrinkling her nose, she missed the warmer climes of Los Angeles, but the City of Angels was more like a city of devils, so maybe she’d find an angel in Hell’s Kitchen. It made sense, right? With a snort at her own ridiculous trail of thought, she ran a hand through hair that hung lank and greasy against her head. She hadn’t seen so much as a bar of soap for over a week, and the feel of the grime clinging to her body was making her twitchy. Not much she could do, though. Even the shelters these days were looking for ID of some kind or another, and she’d lost her last set of fakes when jumping train cars to get across the blasted beast of a country. At least the heavy clouds overhead suggested rain. She’d almost look clean once they cleared out.

It was simply uncivilized to have so much fecking _land_ in one’s country, if you asked her. Back home in England they had a reasonable amount of real estate. This country? Way too much space, and so much of it horrifically empty. How did the people in the middle of it live that way? She needed the smell of the ocean on the breeze, so bouncing back between the coasts like a ping pong ball as she searched for a place to stay was becoming par for the course. Trudging along the filthy streets, head down, hands in her ratty hoodie pockets, she tried to think of what she was going to do here.

She never should have jumped back over the pond. Her accent stuck out amidst a population that was suffering from a weird kind of Britmania. One of them marries a Windsor and all of a sudden the whole country is obsessed. She needed fresh IDs, and a new name. Maybe she’d go Irish this time, Saoirse or Siobhan. The accent wasn’t hard to fake, and it didn’t even have to be that good to fool these Hollywood-glutted idiots. She’d been asked more than once if her cockney hack was an Irish accent and it made her want to punch through a blighter’s face. Seriously, these people thought they were the leaders of the supposed “Free World”? They could barely open a McDonald’s bag without printed instructions. She’d paid for a coffee the other day and the cup actually stated ‘Caution, Hot!’

Passing a consignment shop she paused to look at the screens, stumbling when an all-too-familiar face flashed across the one nearest her. _No way. No fecking way. It couldn’t be him. He wasn’t blonde, or that big. It was just a lookalike._ Shaking her head as if that could change what she had seen, she backed away from the window… directly into a warm body. In an instant she had turned around, patting them down and apologizing for her clumsiness, deft fingers dipping into pockets and snagging a wallet before she’d even thought about it. She looked up, big caramel-coloured eyes catching a startling pair of bright green ones. For a second she was trapped, she’d never made the mistake of making eye contact with a mark before, but this one wasn’t even supposed to _be_ a mark. It was sloppy, a desperate act in a moment of opportunity rather than something planned and thought out, but waste not want not. Pops always said that chances that cropped up on their own should be reaped with extra enthusiasm.

She ran faster, sneakers squeaking against the warm pavement as the overcast sky opened up, rain falling like a blanket across the city. In seconds she was soaked through, chilled, and even angrier at herself. Stupid move. She never got thrown any more, she was far too old for those teenage shenanigans. Mayor Judas Maxwell might look like the man she had known as Rufus Kane, but there was no way he was the same guy. It had been over a decade, sure, but he couldn’t have changed so fast, the guy was too old.

Mentally she calmed herself down, shaking out the nerves and finally ducking into the awning over a bodega and pulling out the wallet she lifted. At the very least she might get something to eat out of all of this, and maybe some soap so she could take a sink-bath in a public restroom somewhere. The quality of the leather was better than most of the pieces she’d picked in her time, and it should have clued her in to the gravity of her error, but it was too late. She already had the loot.

Shiny platinum and black cards stared up at her, making a lump of nerves seize in her throat. Whomever she had lifted this from was loaded, and not just wealthy but, _obscenely_ well off. That wasn’t good. Not good at all. In her experience, the more money people had the angrier they got about losing it. Worse, who the bloody hell carried hundreds in their wallets? Someone who looked like her couldn’t get away with dropping those anywhere. Shoving the few measly twenties and a tenner in her pocket, she pondered what to do with her poorly chosen birdie. She did not want to get arrested on this side of the pond. Americans were weird about folks that wandered into their country unlicensed and unannounced.

She had too much shit to think about. What kind of rich bloke dressed like he belonged in the slums? Hellfire, what was a bloke this rich doing in the Kitchen at all? Who was this Jonas Maxwell, and why did he look so much like an older version of her former lover? How the bleeding hell was she going to make it over here if she kept making stupid fecking mistakes. Slumping against the wall she tucked the wallet back into her pocket, watching the crowds with their multitude of nearly identical black umbrellas pass by. Nobody noticed her, to them she was just another invisible homeless person in a long, sad day of them. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, feeling the odd droplet of water that escaped the bodega’s awning splash on her forehead.

Feck but she was an idiot.


	2. Chapter 2

Dania was a ghost, or at least she was as close to being one as someone still living could be. In the whole city, there were maybe a dozen people who would recognize her face. She kept her hair down, and her hood up, never made eye contact, barely spoke. She did everything she could not to stand out, not to be noticed, and then? Then she looked some blighter right in the eyes while she had her hand wrist-deep in his pocket. Fecking bellend. A few options buzzed through her head, and she made her decision quick. Sidling into the bodega she spent the small bills, picking up some snacks, a bottle of shampoo, some hair ties, and a zippered sweater and matching hat that proudly declared I Love New York on it.

The man stared at her for a long moment when she asked if she could use his restroom, but she kept her eyes on the peeling toes of her runners, trying to look small and helpless. With a heavy sigh, he nodded. “Yes okay, but no drugs? Yes? No drugs or I call police.” She made her promises, and something about her soft voice and lilting accent, she’d gone for the Irish, seemed to appease him. Handing her a key attached to a milk jug he pointed to a small room at the back of the store. She washed up quick, braiding her and tucking it under the cap. She shoved her old hoodie into the garbage can, and shoved everything else into her pockets.

Returning the key to the bodega owner, she waited around until a group of tourists came in, exiting the shop when they did. She trailed their group for a few blocks, finally ducking out down an alley. Wincing with regret at the wasted money, she tossed the hat and sweater onto the ground near the garbage cans. Maybe some other poor shmuck would find them. A moment’s hesitation, and she added the shampoo and most of the packaged snacks. They wouldn’t fit into the pockets of her jeans anyway. She wasn’t sure why she was keeping the wallet, but maybe she could find a fence or something to change out the hundreds to something spendable.

Clad only in a thin grey t-shirt, torn jeans and broken shoes, she let her braid drop down the middle of her back, used the building’s fire escape to hop over the back wall of the alley, and rejoined the crowd of bodies on the other side. Head down to keep the rain out of her face, and other folks’ eyes off of hers, she wondered what she should do about the Jonas Maxwell thing. Why did he look like Rufus? Were they related? Surely her past couldn’t be that close on her heels. She’d left him behind when she left Los Angeles a decade ago, and she had no intention of falling back into the trap that was his life of violence and crime. Sure she picked the odd pocket, but that wasn’t the same. He had ambition, big dreams which could only lead to bigger problems.

Just before the incident that had launched her flight back across the ocean, she’d heard him talking late at night to someone named Isaias, and when she’d asked he’d patted her cheek and said it was just some Brazilian drug cartel he was talking to in order to get his hands on ‘the good stuff, dirt cheap’. That was the moment she had realized how far she had fallen. Picking pockets and running the odd grift to get by was one thing, but drugs was a whole different ball of wax. Cartels? That was a one way ticket to ending up in the morgue, and she’d told Rufus that.

He’d been so angry. She remembered that much. He’d yelled, and she’d been afraid he was going to hit her, but he never did. It was one of the reasons she’d stayed with him for so long. He’d been distracted that night on the job, and then everything had gone tits up and that man had ended up dead. She shuddered, brushing the spider web feeling off her arms. Maybe she shouldn’t have run. Maybe she should have stayed and done her time, turned Rufus in too, but she hadn’t done that. Instead she’d left. Now she was back, and somewhere out there was a city mayor that bore a terrifyingly close resemblance to her old flame.

Making her way to the abandoned warehouse she was using as a flop, she slid past the broken door and padded quietly into the basement. Thankfully it hadn’t flooded this time, and she moved the big box away from the wall, throwing her damp shirt over top of it to dry before climbing inside and laying down. Maybe tucking up inside was overly paranoid, she was gross and dirty and homeless after all, but she was always careful. Digging out her small flashlight from her tiny bundle of possessions, she flicked it on, watching the pale, wavering beam for a long moment before she pulled out the wallet she had stolen. Carefully she set out all the cards, she’d have to dump those, and they’d likely be cancelled by now anyways. Lifting the ID she turned it this way and that to examine it. Address here in Hell’s Kitchen, name? Aidan Wentworth. She examined his pictures, looking at those startling emerald eyes that had caught her off guard. Yeah. He looked like an Aiden.

She frowned, peering at the ID closer, holding it just so under the light, and air whooshed out of her lungs. Well she’d be hung for horses, the fecking thing was a fake. It was the best bloody fake she’d ever seen in her life, but sure as shite it was still a fake. Hurriedly she dug the rest of the items out of the wallet. Nothing that interested her, some old pictures and the hundreds she’d never be able to spend, but her hands were shaking. If he was this loaded, but had a fake ID, he was probably some kind of criminal. That’s why he was down in the Kitchen dressed like a bum. Letting out a low groan she replaced everything in the wallet and tightened her arms around her waist. All she wanted was to live her life, how was she always getting caught up with fecking criminals?


	3. Chapter 3

The building is quiet, a faint hum of electricity that never quite got cut off even though no one was paying for it, the distant patter of rain on the roof a floor above, the grind of late night traffic on the street outside. It soothes her, reminding her of home, of her childhood. She can almost picture her Pops coming down the rickety stairs of their split level flat, tatty housecoat and grey-stained slippers, calling her name in his soft brogue. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the image away. They hadn’t stayed there for long, just long enough for the landlady to realize the fella she was tagging wasn’t about to pay rent. She’d held out longer than most, though.

Maybe those memories were the reason she kept ending up in America. No accents to make her think of home. The food was different, the weather too. She just had to distance herself from her own mind. A new sound breaks her concentration, and she freezes, listening. A faint creaking, regular intervals. Was it a wild animal, or was someone trying to hone in on her turf? The homeless population here was notoriously territorial, but she was fairly certain that no one had claimed this place. Something about the smell of old fish-packing equipment made most of the drifters prefer to sleep under the open sky. Clearly they’d never been to Cardiff in August.

Carefully she slid out of her wooden crate, tucking her meagre belongings into the corner and covering them with a scrap of burlap. It wouldn’t stop someone bent on poking around, but a casual observer might not notice. She wasn’t a fighter, she never had been, but she was wicked fast and light on her feet, and that was enough to avoid most problems. Avoidance was always the best option, and she moved quietly towards the rear exit to the building. It wasn’t a door, per se, but an old broken window, just barely large enough for her to squeak through. If she’d been even half a stone heavier the squeeze would have been too tight. Out in the rain, she cursed the loss of her hoodie, wrapping her arms around herself as she picked her way through the alley and out to the street.

She wasn’t sure how long she planned to stay in Hell’s Kitchen, the last thing she needed was to get into a fight about squatter’s rights that she was going to come out on the bottom of. Head down to avoid the worst of the rain, arms wrapped around herself, she turned down another alley and crashed into something warm and hard. Letting out a squeak of distress she stumbled backwards, arms flailing in an attempt to regain her balance. _Stupid stupid stupid._ She should have been paying attention, not woolgathering. A masculine chuckle filled the space around her, the heavy yank accent almost impossible for her to decipher.

“Ay, watch where ya goin’, girlie.” An echo of laughter as the man’s friends fanned out behind her, like a pack of hyenas. Dania trembled, biding her time. This wasn’t the first time she’d been cornered by wannabe tough-guys late at night. She just had to keep her head and remember that they might be stronger than her, but she was smarter, faster, and more determined. “Lookee here, fellas. We was just talkin’ ‘bout how there weren’t enough pretty dames in the neighbourhood, and voila, one falls right into our arms. How’s doin’, sweetheart?”

Keeping her voice low, Dania willed her body to stop trembling. Looking weak and being weak were two different things. Looking weak might give you an advantage if your opponent was stupid enough, being weak just got you dead. She was grateful that her voice didn’t waver when she spoke. “Look gents, I’m sure you all fink you’re a right agreeable lot, but I’ve got business to attend to. How’s about you just let me by and maybe I’ll come ‘round in the morning for a chat?”

Another round of laughter, and the figure she’d run into stepped closer, invading her space. “Ya hear tha’ mouth on her? Like a fucking Queen or somethin. Un-fricking-believable.” His hand reached for her arm, and she dodged, spinning to the side in a movement perfected by years of dipping her fingers into other people’s pockets. She spared the meathead a glance, a smile flickering across her face as he looked at his hand in confusion. Now he was bracketed by the chuckling ninnies he’d brought with him, and she was free and clear from here to the road.

Pops had always said that the sell of the grift was showmanship, so she bobbed the group a little curtsey in mockery. “Sorry gents, but I really must toddle on. It’s been a pleasure.” Spinning around she darted off, sneakers slapping against the wet pavement. It was a solid ten seconds before movement sounded behind her, but by then she was careening around a corner and out onto the street. Under her breath she muttered every foul epithet she could conjure. First she got ousted from bed by unexplained noises, then this numb-brained brigade of blokes had her _running_.

It took less than two blocks to lose them. The leader fella wasn’t in great shape, and even from their distance she could hear him panting. Pathetic. Honestly, yanks should really give their lifestyles a long, hard look. Popping into a late night diner to get out of the rain, she scrabbled together enough change for a weak cup of tea and tucked into a booth near the back. Uncomfortable, she adjusted, pulling the pricey wallet out of her pocket and setting it on the bench beside her. She didn’t want it up on the table where it would be noticed.

Sighing she leaned back against the vinyl, listening to the sound of water dripping off her hair and onto the seat beside her. Hell’s Kitchen was certainly living up to its name.


	4. Chapter 4

As soon as the cops entered the diner, Dania's spine stiffened. Being who she was, doing what she did, she was understandable nervous around police officers. Worse, in this neighbourhood they behaved like bloody thugs. Maybe Hell's Kitchen had a bad reputation, but the way she'd seen law enforcement behave made her think that they were part of the problem. She took a slow sip of the garbage excuse for tea, cringing at the bitter aftertaste. Not a damn person in this whole damn country could make a reasonable cuppa. She went back to watching the cops as the one officer turned up the volume on the television. She watched the ginger gentleman from under lowered lashes, a small shiver from the cold and damp running through her as he sat next to his Hispanic partner. The soft sounds of electronically conveyed voices fills the small space, and she felt her lip curl in disgust. Americans had such horrific accents, and the news anchor was no different. The lady had definitely had work done, and Dania imagined that she was some kind of horrific child's doll brought to life.

The report on rolling blackouts had very little to do with her life and the jobs she worked, so she stopped paying attention to the broadcast, her focus returning to the policemen. She listened intently as the cops started talking about new laws, and increased power on the streets as she pretended to nurse her swiftly cooling tea. She retreated further into herself, horrified at the implications of what the two men were discussing. In her experience, American police were brutal enough as it was, she couldn't imagine giving the glorified thugs more power. That Maxwell man that looked so much like Rufus was bad news. What she needed to do was get her shit together and get out of here. Hell's Kitchen was too hot for her. Still, she couldn't help but wonder what her old boyfriend had to do with all of this. The similarities in their appearances were way to close for it to be a mere coincidence. He'd never mentioned having a brother to her, not once in the two years they'd lived together.

Her eyes flicker up to catch the image of a pair of women on the screen, and she drops her cup of tea, shattering the cheap ceramic and splashing herself with the lukewarm liquid. "Goddam cunt motherfuckering bloodclaat son of a bint minger!" The curses explode out of her before she can rein herself in. Grabbing a pile of napkins she begins to blot at the spreading brown stains on her one fecking clean shirt and tears of frustration well in her eyes. The beleaguered waitress rushed over, trying to help her clean up the mess and Dania watched the cops examine the situation and then turn back to their meals. No help from that fecking corner, big bloody surprise. If it didn't involve bashing heads together, the bloody bobbies barely lifted their backsides from a seat.

She hadn't made too big of a scene, which she was grateful for, but she'd have to be careful. At least one of the officers could likely identify her again if he ever saw her, and that was always a bloody problem Noticeable pickpockets were either caught, or ended up on the wrong side of some big shit and then they took a long walk they never returned from. Once she was sure she wasn't being watched anymore, she pulled one of the crisp hundred dollar bills from the stolen wallet and pressed it into the waitress' hands. Pushing aside her protests that it was too much, Dania shoved the wallet back into her pocket and headed for the door. She needed to find a new place to squat for the night, and if she didn't do that sooner rather than later she'd be sleeping in doorways again.

Pushing through the door she bumped into another fecking person. Twice in one fecking day! Apologizing in a soft, barely audible murmur she continued on, hanging a sharp left just outside the building. The way she was running into people lately, she was practically a fecking bumper car like at those shitty American carnivals. She ran her hands over herself. Everything was still present and accounted for, including the stolen wallet. She would never risk another run at an unplanned mark this close to actual cops, but that didn't mean the other person wasn't playing the same game. Content that she had it all, she kept her head down, mulling over the events of the day, particularly the last little bit.

Why was there a news story about the women that were on faded pictures in the wallet she had nabbed earlier today? Somehow she had arsed everything up and landed herself right in the shit. She had been trying to bloody lay low, not get wrapped up into some high society bollocks. What the blooming hell was a man whose family were flashed on the telly doing slumming it in Hell's Kitchen??

Whoever the blasted todger who she'd lifted from today was, he was big news and she was a right bellend for not seeing it. His clothes were way too nice, even though he was trying to look as rough as the rest of them. Everything that had happened since she'd bumped into him... no, before that. Since she had seen Mayor Judas Maxwell on the pawn shop's television her past had started trying to creep up on her. She could feel it grasping at her ankles, trying to drag her down for past mistakes. For a moment, she was that teenage girl again, staring in horror as crimson stains crept across a pale carpet.

She hugged herself, tucking into an alleyway to lean against the wall and get her breathing back under control. If she hyperventilated and passed out now she was buggered. Maybe she really should do some digging around, reach out to some of Rufus' old crew and see what he was up to. The problem was, that put her at risk of actually running into Rufus again, and she couldn't do it. She'd gotten away from the controlling crook once, she was worried that she'd be too frightened to do so a second time.


	5. Chapter 5

A man's voice follows her down the alley, and for a moment she doesn't even register what he is saying, that he's speaking to her. She never talks to anyone anymore, and certainly no one in this city reaches out to talk to strangers. Still, finally the words penetrate her cloud of selfish self-recrimination. "That's all I have left of her. She's dead. Gone. I just want the pictures!" Slowly she unwraps her arms from around herself, incredulous. In all her years picking pockets, no one had ever tracked her down after the fact. Sure she'd been nabbed a time or two, but the mark finding her? That was unheard of.

She peered back around the corner, and sure enough, there he was. The same messy haircut, the same piercing green eyes. She'd never seen such desperation in another person before, though perhaps if she had looked into a mirror the night Rufus left her in the room with that dead man she would recognize the look. Something terrible had happened to that man, something to do with the women in the picture, and it all came back to that man on the news, the one that looked like Rufus. The one that the news called Mayor Maxwell. Why else would he be dedicated a plaque to two random car accident victims?

The first time she'd seen the mark was in front of a screen with Judas Maxwell's face. Maybe she wasn't the only one with a haunted past. The difference was, she didn't want to find her past. This guy seemed to be hunting it, living in it. Whatever he was up to, it was his funeral. She didn't want to get involved. Maybe it would be best to give him the photos, clear every hint of her every being connected to the green-eyed man from her person. That way she could walk away, leave town, and get far away from the man who could very well have been her former lover's older brother, they looked that alike.

"I don't know what you want with that Maxwell fellow, guv, but if you hear the name Rufus Kane, I suggest you run. Far as you can get. I can't guarantee that they're linked, but my guts tell me that they are." Her thick cockney accent rolled over the words, and she cursed herself for ten kinds of fool for speaking. There was just something compelling about the stranger. Maybe it was his handsome face, but she doubted it. She'd seen plenty of handsome faces, and Rufus was proof that an angelic appearance could hide a devil underneath. It was probably the pain and sorrow in his eyes. She'd always been a bleeding heart, her former lover had mocked her for it a hundred times over.

She'd done her civic duty, she'd put out the warning to the fellow, that was all she owed the world. More than. She didn't want to get involved, didn't have to get involved. Still, she'd seen how Rufus could ruin a life, and this poor sot looked like he had taken enough blows to fell one of those uncomfortably massive American redwoods. She should have kept walking, but she didn't. She would deserve it if everything came crashing down around her now. Never reach out, never get involved, and never revisit a mark. Hadn't she learned anything from her grifter father?

Apparently not, because she moved closer, offering the wallet to the man, entering his area of reach. Idiot. This close he could nab her, and if he could keep hold of her he could drag her in to the police, there were two of them just back at the diner. Worse, he could see her face clearly, even in the steady rain. Now he could ID her, give her description to law enforcement, and then she'd really be up shit's creek. She offered a half smile, just a small lifting of her lips in one corner, and shrugged her shoulders. "I didn't mean to nab your wallet, guv. Bad habit from my misspent youth, y'know." She hesitated. In for a penny, in for a pound she supposed. "You shouldn't wander around with bills that big on your person. Most places around here won't take them, too much risk of them being fake, and too tempting for the stupid thieves."

She looked down at the greying sock that poked through the hole of her sneaker. Maybe she was one of the stupid thieves. If her behaviour today was any judge she absolutely was. The way to compensate for one mistake was not supposed to be make another, bigger error. Stepping forward once more she shoved the wallet at the man's chest, turning away. "You gotta be more careful. Doesn't matter who you are, or who you're pretending to be, this part of town will eat you alive if you don't watch out. That's all I gotta say."

She ran, right passed him, hoping to disorient him so he couldn't follow her. She had to get her stuff, the trinkets that really mattered, and clear them out of the warehouse so she could find a new place to crash. It didn't matter if the guy seemed unfazed by her particular profession, she didn't like anyone knowing where she slept at night. Information that other people knew could be picked up by other people. Dangerous people. People that Dania absolutely didn't want to run into again, not in this life or the next.

She started considering her new identity. Definitely time to go Irish, cockney was too easy to pick out of the crowd, or it would be if the stupid yanks paid five seconds of attention to the way anyone spoke, and she was fairly certain the bloke with those damnable green eyes was the kind to pay attention. It was a shame. She'd liked being Dania, had held on to the name longer than most of the identities she had assumed over the years.


	6. Chapter 6

Rufus Kane had been a force to be reckoned with, even fifteen years ago when they first met. He'd been impressive, and he had wanted Dania. She'd never been one of those wide-eyed innocents who always got took in by con men, men like her father. At eighteen she'd already been an accomplished pickpocket and petty thief, but she'd wandered across the pond to see if the Americas were any easier on the lower class than her own sovereign soil. That, and she wanted to get out of the reach of her piece of shite old man. It was one thing to make your money bilking plush toffs, another to then hand all that cash over to a bloke just because he got off in your mum once upon a time.

Dania had been on her own for a few weeks before she ran into Rufus and his crew of gangly teens and twenty-somethings. She'd known just by looking at him that he was the boss of the group. Taller than the next biggest of them by a good four inches, and thick through the shoulders he'd had an air of controlled violence about him. He'd walked right up to her, his gang circling to cut off her escape, and taken her chin in his hand. She could still hear the soft threat in his voice. "Aw sweetness, you're lucky that you're such a peach. I don't take kindly to strangers dipping into pockets 'round my turf without cutting me in on the deal." His other hand had closed around her wrist, strong as steel as he pulled her in closer. "C'mon, peaches. Don't you want to thank me for not leaving you all pale in the gutter."

It was a testament to how stupid she'd been back then that Dania had actually found his manner appealing. He had sounded so reasonable, and she'd obligingly titled her face up to kiss him. After that, she was rarely out of his sight. Even though she was scads better at what they were doing than most of his crew, he liked to keep her close, right up beside him where he could keep an eye on her. At first it had been exciting. No one had ever been that interested in her. His occasional jealous rages and the possessive way he isolated her seemed closer to love than anything she had ever experienced, after all. She thought she had been so world weary and experienced. Idiot. They made love and they fought with all the passion two young people could muster. Somehow, though, it seemed that Rufus always won.

She might have had an attitude, but Rufus had a volatile temper, and occasionally he would go off into a mad rant about his father, about some cold-hearted bitch and purse strings, about a brother with a golden spoon? It was always hard to follow, and she never quite knew what would set it off. He'd run through the whole diatribe though. Afterwards he'd disappear for a few days, and when he came back there'd be treats and cash and he would be so calm. Gentle. Loving. Wherever he went and whatever he did there, it smoothed the harsher edges off of him for a few days, and when it did Dania felt like she was walking on air. He'd take her around to see all the big shots, call her his girl, his little peach, and dress her up nice. They would go on dates, walking hand in hand and buying ice cream, maybe even catch a movie. Those were the best times, when it felt like young love.

It never lasted though. A week, tops, and he'd be back to ranting and yelling, back to cutting little comments about her heritage, her appearance. She found herself keeping house more often than not, a life she'd never wanted for herself, but through it all she kept telling herself 'At least he doesn't hit me.' As if that was a selling point on a relationship. She'd cook and clean, and at night she'd suffer through heavy handed pawing and quick, unsatisfying fucking. Then he started taking bigger jobs. Breaking and entering. Drug runs. Stuff that could really put you away for a good chunk of time if you got caught. Suddenly Dania had been glad that she was being left behind. Until he started questioning her when he got back.

His paranoia grew, until he was certain someone was ratting him out to the cops. Narrowed eyes turned to her, no matter how she pleaded that he never left her alone long enough to do anything that would put him at risk. That, of course, wasn't good enough, and soon he was hauling her along on every job. Mostly she drove, not that she had a license. Sometimes he'd have her picking locks, and once he had even handed her a gun, though when he learned she didn't know how to shoot one he was incredulous. Apparently on this side of the water it was a requirement or something. She tried to explain that back home not even the cops carried guns, but he accused her of making it up because she didn't want to help. 

The fight had continued into the house, Rufus getting louder and louder, despite the supposedly clandestine requirements of the job. Then all hell had broken loose, and that old man had walked in, shaking hands holding a shotgun as he ordered the 'hooligans' off his property. Chaos broke out, people running, Rufus charging, and Dania had recoiled from it all. The violence and the disorganization. When it was all over, the old man was on the ground, his neck broken and blood pooling around him, and Rufus had the shotgun. She'd looked at her lover, at the dead old man, and made a decision. With all the speed that years on the street had taught her, she had fled that house like Satan himself had raised his throne inside it. Behind her, she could hear Rufus howling her name, but she kept running, and didn't stop until she found herself safely back in England.


End file.
